


i set a fire in a blackberry field

by wolfchester



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, also poems from bukowski and e.e. cummings, bc they are the soundtrack to buckynat, my ideal buckynat story, so this is why its tagged as M, thank u enjoy, the national lyrics, this is my attempt to merge the comics and the mcu into one linear story, ugh i just love them, violence and swearing, will not include smut but will have sexual content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 03:19:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18930229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfchester/pseuds/wolfchester
Summary: theirs is a love story spanning centuries, timelines, lives, universes. they'll always find their way back.(based on lyrics from the national)





	1. i never thought about love when i thought about home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (the song in this chapter is 'bloodbuzz ohio')
> 
> (these first two chapters are kinda like intros to the story - the real stuff will start in chapter 3 when bucky and natasha meet)
> 
> this 17 chapter fic was born out of my undying love for buckynat. forever upset that their love was Never Mentioned In The MOVies. good thing we still have the comics to some extent...
> 
> anyway. this is my baby. i have spent literally years crafting this (if literal years means creating the plot and leaving it unwritten for five years.....but still....i spent YEARS on this ok). (i really hope it's not shit bc i just told you all i've spent at least 5 years on this.) (wow don't fuck it up dude omg)
> 
> every chapter is inspired by a song by the national. every time i listen to one of their songs, my brain just yells BUCKYNATBUCKYNATBUCKYNAT until i write something. yikes. i recommend listening to each song before you read. they're all so hauntingly beautiful. each chapter will also include an excerpt from poems by e.e. cummings and charles bukowski just bc i wanted to.
> 
> there will be a major character death in this. there will also be a fair bit of violence, swearing and sexy times (if my little puritan brain can ever manage to write good sex scenes...). i hope u like it
> 
> please love and enjoy this thing i created bc i got tired of my brain screaming BUCKYNAT at me every time i listened to the national and decided to write something. i love u all xoxoxox
> 
> (also there are some similarities in this fic to my old bucknat one called 'you got blood on your hands (i think it's my own)' just bc my ideal buckynat timeline is still kinda the same. but that fic's shit (kinda debating deleting it) and this one is (hopefully) not. so yeah
> 
> okay i will stop talking now and probably won't talk again this whoooole time. lucky you, reader! enjoy

* * *

  

_I still owe money to the money to the money I owe_

_I never thought about love when I thought about home_

_The floors are falling out from everybody I know_

_I’m on a blood buzz, yes I am_

_I never married but Ohio don't remember me_

 

* * *

 

 

**18TH MARCH 1991 - N. Romanova - Confession Tape - PROPERTY OF S.H.I.E.L.D.**

 

_"...Miss Romanova. If you could start at the date of your birth, please.”_

_“Yes, sir. My name is Natalia Alianovna Romanova. I was born on the 22nd February 1928 in Stalingrad, USSR. My mother’s name was Jelena and my father’s name was Vanya. I have no siblings. I was orphaned in December 1932.”_

 

Natalia Romanova’s first memory is of fire.

Raging, furious, vengeful fire. White-hot. Life-altering.

It began in the roof of their home on a little back street of Stalingrad.

(Exactly how the flames started is still a mystery, although with decades worth of retrospect she wonders if it was not an accident. The Romanova’s are descended from Russian royalty. She knows now her father was tangled up in dangerous politics with dangerous men, and her mother likely knew some of his secrets, whispers of violence and murder and bribery spilled out across pillowcases in the late evenings. Perhaps he became too entangled and someone thought his life wasn’t worth the risk it held.)

As a child not yet five years old, the memory of this night is fuzzy around the edges. All young memories are. Like an old photograph or poorly drawn illustration. She can’t remember the sound of crackling wood or the sure wet feeling the snow must have made when it soaked through her stockings, but she does remember this: licks of orange reaching up curtains; choking smoke; Mama’s face streaming with tears; Papa nowhere to be found; voice hoarse from shrieking. Then the faint feeling of falling and being caught in a stranger’s arms. Looking back at a burning house and screaming, screaming.

The strange man with the beard leading her away from the fire and into a warm car. Falling asleep.

 

_“At age four and ten months, I was placed in the custody of Soviet soldier Ivan Petrovich Bezukhov. Ivan was my foster father until I reached the age of nine.”_

 

The strange man’s name turns out to be Ivan Petrovich, and he is kind but firm with young Natalia. She spends four years living with Ivan in a small apartment overlooking a river. She goes to school. Learns her times tables and Russian history and how to read. Ivan takes her on strolls through parks, reads her bedtime stories at night. On her birthdays, he lets her eat ice cream for dinner. It’s like she has a real family all over again.

Then, at nine, she bleeds for the first time.

Over breakfast a week later, Ivan informs her that she will now be attending a special school for special girls. Natalia asks the usual questions: where is it? for how long? who will my teachers be? will I still get to stay with you, father?

Ivan’s responses are short and vague. “You do not even know how extraordinary you are, my darling. This school is the best thing for you.”

The next day, they pack up her small arrangement of things. A worn photograph of her mama and papa standing on the front doorstep of the house that burnt down. A small teddy with its ear chewed off. A little suitcase filled with a few dresses, new black leather shoes, and a cosy sweater for when it gets cold.

“Everything else you need the school will provide,” Ivan says. She trusts him.

She shouldn’t have.

 

_“Ivan made a deal with the KGB, where he had previously worked, when he was first given custody of me. When I began to menstruate - when I was old enough - I was to be handed over to the Kremlin to be trained with twenty-eight young orphaned girls as a spy for my country.”_

_“And were you aware that this is what you would be doing at this so-called special school?”_

_“No, I was not. I did not realise what was happening until I had been at the Red Rooms for a number of weeks. I was young.”_

_“So would you say you consented to your training?”_

_“In a sense, no.”_

 

The day he says goodbye, Natalia feels like she’s losing a second father. Although she is young - and although Ivan promises her that he’ll visit sometimes - she knows this is not ordinary. This is not the way things are supposed to go. You’re not supposed to lose your parents, and then lose another surrogate parent, and then be shipped off to an unfamiliar place where you know nothing and noone.

She sees Ivan wipe away a tear or two as he hugs her goodbye at the train station. “Be a good girl, Natalia,” he whispers before kissing her on the cheek. “I promise you’ll be okay.”

Then the train is whistling and a peculiar woman with stick-straight black hair and a hard-lined mouth calls for Natalia to come aboard.

Ivan squeezes her hand as she moves away. It’s the last time she’ll ever see him.

She remembers the heavy weight of sorrow and fear that settles at the pit of her stomach as she boards that train. Remembers the tears that prick at her eyes when she looks out the window and sees Ivan already walking away. The other ten girls who sit next to her on the train look as frightened as she feels. None have name badges. All have young, round faces and young, round eyes. All have white knuckles clenching handles of bags, and feet that don’t quite touch the floor from the high seats of the carriage.

 

_“_ _I arrived at what was called the Red Room Academy on the 3rd of March, 1937.”_

_“Could you explain for us how the Academy works?”_

_“Worked. Gone now. Disbanded and destroyed after the collapse of the Union.”_

_“Yes, of course. Please continue, Romanova.”_

_“Built by Department X, the Red Rooms were a compound of concrete buildings located on the outskirts of Moscow…”_

 

After two weeks at the compound, Natalia finally think she knows her way around the place. There’s the main dining hall. The bunk rooms. Briefing rooms. A large, barbed-wire-fenced courtyard. A swimming pool that always has its cover on. A shooting range. Many, many rooms with plenty of bolts on the doors that do not look inviting in the slightest. Numerous training rooms and arenas that she hasn’t seen the inside of yet, and will continue to be shut out of until she finishes her basic training.

She shares a room with three other girls the same age as her. Yelena: a yellow-haired girl from Moscow who always looks angry. Katya: Ukrainian, brunette, quiet. Anya: almost a twin to Natalia, with her red hair and dark eyes. She and Anya shared a seat on the train from Stalingrad to the Academy, and they are becoming fast friends.

Her everyday looks like this:

0600: Awake. Showered. Dressed in the uniform of the Academy - black skirt, white shirt, red tie. Just like a school uniform. Though this is not like any school she has ever attended.

0640: Breakfast in the dining hall with the other girls. There are twenty-eight of them in total.  Eighteen were there before Natalia arrived, and they seem a few years older than her. Teenagers, at least. These girls wear a different uniform. Black slacks and white shirts, hair done up in tight buns. Though they’re not much older than Natalia and the ten other girls who arrived on the train with her, they look formidable.

0700-1100: Morning lessons. She and the other girls learn about Russian history, politics, languages, physics, mathematics. The usual subjects one would learn at school. Natalia does well.

1100-1230: Ninety minutes of exercise in the large gymnasium. The girls are split into age groups where they compete against each other in a variety of different activities. They learn gymnastics, tumbling, krav maga, mixed martial arts. Every so often, if the trainers are in a good mood, they may be allowed to play a game of volleyball.

1230-1330: Break for recess. Lunch is always taken in the dining hall, and then the girls are allowed thirty minutes of ‘outside time’ in the courtyard. The courtyard is nothing special. Sparse patches of grass, a worn line of pavement that runs along the perimeter, barbed wire, no trees. But at least she gets to see the sky.

1330-1700: Afternoon lessons. These are different from the first. Natalia and the girls sit through lectures on etiquette, appearance, code-making and breaking, and low-grade weapons training. They’re too young for guns but old enough for knives. The first time the instructor brings out a knife for each girl to handle, Natalia is so scared she is going to cut herself, she almost drops it. Anya _does_ cut herself - a nice, thin slice across the palm. The teacher reprimands Anya with a rap of the cane over her knuckles, and a sharp word about being careful. A roll of bandages is thrown her way by another student, and Natalia helps her friend wipe up the blood.

1700-1800: Dinner is also taken in the dining hall. Usually something nutritious but bland like bread, potatoes and vegetables, with a tough slab of meat if she’s lucky. Natalia sits next to Anya and Katya, fearful of trying to make friends with the other girls. Even Yelena, whom she shares a room with, is cold towards her. The Red Rooms are not supposed to be a place for friendship. There is supposed to be Mother Russia and nothing more.

1800-1930: Directly after dinner, the girls attend psychology class with Professor Pchelintsov. This class is different from the rest. Here, they are not learning anything, but being tested on. The doctors in the class tell them that the purpose of the session is to assess their brain’s behaviour and health. One by one, each girl is strapped into a chair and a guard placed into her mouth while a headset bursting with wires is attached to her head. A mask is pulled over her eyes. An IV drip filled with a partially clear and slightly green liquid is inserted into the arm. There are at least ten girls in the room at any one time. A loudspeaker flickers on, and the echo of a deep voice bounces off the walls. Lights switch off. For almost an hour, the girls lay there in the darkness, listening to the voice. The stuff in the drip makes her head feel fuzzy and her body feel light. She’s one of the lucky ones - the strange liquid doesn’t have any adverse side effects. For other girls, this is not the case. Natalia hears whispers in the dining hall of an older girl who began to convulse during the class and almost died in her chair, and how the girl hasn’t been seen at the Academy since. She can never remember what the voice says to her in that dark room, but unusual things start to happen within the first few weeks. She’s in the shower one morning and begins to hum an unfamiliar tune. Her toes point reflexively, and she slowly spins under the water, caught in a dance she’s never learnt. Droplets fall on her face and into her eyes, but she blinks them away, and continues to sway to the music she’s making. Later, she’ll swear she felt the soft scratch of tulle along her thighs.

1930-2000: There is a period of half an hour between psychology class and bedtime where, if indicated by the doctors, girls must go to the infirmary and report any injuries or illnesses they may have sustained over the course of the day. The girls must always be fit and strong. And beautiful. Scars are a no-go. Injuries must be dealt with immediately. There are to be no flaws, no imperfections. Always they are accompanied by a guard. No-one is allowed to wander around the compound alone, especially at night. The girls who do not need medical assistance are sent back to their rooms to begin their nighttime routine.

2000-2030: The girls are sent off to bed. They are allocated a toothbrush and paste, a hairbrush, and soap. Anya and Natalia talk in hushed tones after lights out. Anya tells her all about her house back home and how beautiful the windowsills looked when snow fell in the spring. She speaks of a little pet bunny called Zip and a brother named Sasha. Once, she mentioned her parents (now dead) and how it felt to leave it all behind. This time, Anya began to cry. Softly, quietly. Natalia reached out a hand across the bed to touch the other girl’s coverlet and whisper, _you’re going to be okay_. Anya always falls asleep first. Natalia lies awake at night thinking of mama and papa and Ivan, all gone in different ways. It would be nice to say she dreams about them, too, but she doesn’t. Natalia never dreams at all.

This repeats, and repeats, and repeats. Sometimes on the weekends the girls will get to watch a film. Always Russian, always drenched in propaganda. But it’s the one fun thing Natalia gets, so she enjoys it.

This is what the Red Room does: makes the Academy just livable enough, just reasonable enough that no one will want to leave. And for the most part, this tactic works.

It’s like this for four years. Then, at thirteen, the real training begins.

 

_“When I was thirteen I was inducted into the Black Widow program.”_

_“And this was…?”_

_“The official Department X sleeper agent training program. We had been preparing for this for years. Only ten girls out of the younger and older groups were chosen to move forwards and become - what they called - Little Widows. The purpose was to create a super-spy for the Kremlin who had been trained her entire life to follow the Motherland. Someone who had been trained to be so loyal that they would never think of defecting.”_

_“And you were chosen, of course?”_

_“Yes. I was nervous when I first attended the Academy. I was fearful of what would happen to me. I didn’t feel like I was made for the job. Not like some of the other girls were. But I never made mistakes. I followed the rules. I became a very good student. I always did what was required of me. I was easy to train. I was desirable. That’s why they chose me.”_

 

Anya, Yelena and Natalia are among the few girls selected for further training in the Widow program. Katya is not. She is never seen by Natalia again. It’s the first time she loses a friend, but certainly not the last. There will only be one Widow, after all.

For seven years, Natalia’s life is training, and training, and training.

Weapons handling. Martial arts. Code-breaking. The art of seduction. And always the voice in the echoey room and the drip, drip, drip of the IV.

On some special days, prisoners from gulags outside the city are brought in for the girls to practice on: knife-throwing, throat-cutting, garroting, target practice. The first few times Natalia witnessed the murder of one of these prisoners with wind-burnt faces and calloused hands, she felt as if she was going to vomit all over the floor. But then it’s her turn to pull the wire tight around the neck of a middle-aged woman with dead-blank eyes, and she doesn’t hesitate.

Natalia pushes too deep and the garrote not only strangles the woman, but pierces the skin of her neck. It’s horrific, but watching thick red blood stream down her shirt sends a rush of adrenaline through Natalia’s body, sizzling, electric. A strange and twisted fascination with the dying human body. She is reprimanded by her trainer for drawing blood while suffocating the prisoner, and she doesn’t do it again.

This does not mean that Natalia develops some kind of sick thrill for killing. Her training and her work are neatly compartmentalised into locked boxes in her brain, only open for memories to go in, never to come out. Part of her training is to learn how to do this. To detach herself.

Assassins with emotions are the walking dead.

For this reasons, relationships with anyone - woman or man - are forbidden for the Little Widows. That’s not to say that rape is unheard of. Natalia’s heard the stories. Young women being caught out of bed late at night and taken advantage of by a guard who doesn’t understand basic human decency. Natalia just hopes (and prays, to whatever kind of god) that it will never be her in such a situation.

(Thankfully, she guesses, there won’t be able children born of those rapes. All girls were sterilised on their fifteenth birthdays.)

Of course, the Academy doesn’t consider the sexual favours - the ‘honey traps’ - the Widows are expected to give as part of their missions to be non-consensual. These things became consensual as soon as these girls stepped foot in the compound, as soon as they gave up their rights to become assassins. Sex with traitorous dukes in mansions bought with dirty money; letting murderous politicians cop a feel after a state dinner; lying there and taking it as a businessman secretly dealing with American arms manufacturers plows himself into her; whispering filthy words into a political journalist’s ear as he jacks himself off. All while wearing a microphone to record the secrets these men spill when their defences are down in a post-coital haze, and more often than not ending with a slit throat.

This is the difference between training as a young girl and training as a teenager: they begin to be sent on espionage missions.

Always with their handlers, disguised as other people in a party or bystanders on the side of the road. Sometimes, a few girls will be sent on a mission together - like when a burlesque club in Paris that was frequented by members of the French state needed to be infiltrated.

But usually, it’s Natalia on her own. Spying down from balconies. Laughing into her drink while she slips a pill into someone’s glass. Taking aim through a stained-glass window in a church. Covering up blood-tinged snow with handfuls of dirt.

She becomes used to it all. Immune. She forgets to be scared of things.

A few weeks before her twentieth birthday, Department X cuts the Widow program in half.

Only five girls remain.

Anya, Yelena, Nadia, Katrina and Natalia.

Who will become the Black Widow?

 

_“Can you tell us what happened when the program split to five girls?”_

_“The Academy was never meant to produce twenty-eight agents. It was always meant to create one: the Black Widow. The girls who didn’t make the cut sometimes went off to work in other sectors of the KGB, or even, if they were young enough, had their memories wiped and were sent home. I know that some - those girls who were disobedient - were murdered. But I don’t know how many. All I know is that by the time I turned twenty, life at the Academy had become even more rigid and structured than before. There was no free time. Training became much more specialised and specific. Nothing that could be considered fun. We were so far along in our training that the Kremlin assumed we would never defect. And we never thought that either.”_

_“And was it at this time you encountered the Winter Soldier?”_

_“Yes. This was when I met the Winter Soldier.”_

 

* * *

 

_escape from the black widow spider_

_is a miracle as great as art._

_what a web she can weave_

_slowly drawing you to her_

_she’ll embrace you_

_then when she’s satisfied_

_she’ll kill you_

_still in her embrace_

_and suck the blood from you._

\- (an excerpt from) the escape - charles bukowski -

 

* * *

 


	2. cover me in rag and bone sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: 'sorrow'
> 
> my boy bucky and his childhood before he went to war and fell off that train.

* * *

 

_Sorrow found me when I was young_

_Sorrow waited, sorrow won_

_Sorrow they put me on the pill_

_It's in my honey, it's in my milk_

 

* * *

 

**June 11th, 1927**

Mom died on Thursday. We had her funeral today. She gave me this journal for my birthday last year. I’m ten now. I thought it was dumb. But I am writing in it now.

Dad says I need to be strong for Becca. But he doesn’t know Becca is already strong. I only saw her cry twice this whole day. I cried like ten times.

I miss Mom.   


**August 17th, 1927**

Sorry Mom for not writing in this journal more. You would maybe have said something like “writing is good for you” and “read more books.” I wish you were here. Even to nag at me to do my homework.

Today is Becca’s birthday. Dad took us to Coney Island and got us ice cream. It was yum. We laughed a lot. But I still miss Mom.  


**September 23rd, 1927**

There is a new kid at school this year. His name is Steven Rogers, but everyone calls him Steve. Actually, they call him a lot of things. Lots of bad names. He’s kinda small so he gets picked on. I saw him outside the school gate getting pushed around by Ben and Harry in the year above. I think they tried to take his bus money. I’m bigger than Ben even though I am the year below so I told him to stop.

Okay, fine. I pushed Ben around a bit too. Sorry Mom. But Steve turned out okay! And I didn’t get in trouble.

Steve and me are friends now. He’s coming over to play with me next weekend.   


**October 2nd, 1927**

I found out that Steve’s dad died when he was a soldier in the War. It is kinda nice that both of us don’t have a parent. It helps me with missing my Mom.

Dad let Steve and me go play in the park, but we had to take Becca. She was fine. She just played with her dolls in the grass. Me and Steve pretended we were soldiers on the playground. It was fun!

I hope we get to be best friends.  


**December 24th, 1927**

Today is Christmas Eve!

I helped Dad make the fire and we got to roast marshmallows. Becca got some all over her face. Gross!

Me and Steve have been hanging out together lots. I think we are best friends now. I think Mom would like him.

Today we set out cookies for Saint Nicholas and lit a candle for Mom. I am so excited for tomorrow!  


**January 31st, 1928**

Today was a snow day. I didn’t have school! I went to Steve’s house instead and we played outside in the snow. We made trenches in the garden and pretended we were soldiers in the War. Steve even got his dad’s old medals and wore them until his mom came and told him off.  


**March 10th, 1928**

I’m eleven today! Dad and Becca got me this toy train I saw in the window of Barnaby’s a couple of months ago. Even though I think I’m getting a bit old for trains now, I still love it.

Since it is Saturday, Dad took me, Becca and Steve to Coney Island. We got to eat hot dogs for dinner and an ice cream cone for after.

Steve is kinda scared of heights, but I still made him come on the Cyclone with me. I think the ice cream must not have been good in his stomach, because he vomited _all_ over the ground afterwards. I felt kinda bad cos I think Steve was real embarrassed. I think he thought Dad was gonna be mad at him, but Dad just laughed it off and told Steve it was okay.

Steve’s turning eleven soon, too, and we’re gonna go to the pictures to celebrate. His birthday is in July. July Fourth - how crazy is that!  


**May 16th, 1928**

I got into trouble at school again for fighting. Dad got real mad at me. I know he was super mad because he didn’t yell at me. He just said stuff like “I’m very disappointed in you” and looked all sad about it.

I hope he doesn’t think I’m a bad kid. I know Mom would be mad at me, too. But they don’t understand! I didn’t fight Frankie because I wanted to. He was picking on this little kid on the playground and he wouldn’t stop pushing him around. And he tries to pick fights with Steve all the time ‘cause Steve’s small.

I think that sometimes you gotta fight the bad guys instead of being nice and stuff and “turning the other cheek” like Miss Evans in Sunday School says. Otherwise, the bad guys just win!

Dad should know that better than anybody. He’s a soldier. He knows how to hurt the bad guys. I wanna be a soldier like Dad, because then I can beat up the bad guys without getting told off all the time about it. Maybe then there will be less people to pick on kids like my buddy Steve.  


**April 5th, 1936**

I found this old journal in a pile of stuff I moved out of Dad’s house the other week. I haven’t written in it for so long, it almost feels wrong to try and write in it now. But today feels like a good day to start again.

We had the funeral for Steve’s mom today. Reminded me a lot of my Mom’s. Not many people attended, seeing as Steve doesn’t have siblings and his dad died when he was a kid. God, I feel so bad for the guy. You should have seen his face. I’ve never seen him look so low.

I offered for him to come and stay with me, but he refused. He can be so stubborn sometimes. I love the guy, of course. He’s my best friend. But sometimes I wish he would pull his head out of his ass and see that I’m here to help him. I want to help him.

I just hope he’s gonna be okay.  


**August 21st, 1936**

Steve and I got into art school!

It feels like a pretty big achievement, even though it’s just a community college. Dad says he can’t justify spending the big bucks to get me into a fancy school, especially when we should really be saving for Becca’s education. She’s much more likely than me to actually do something with her life.

But, hey, it feels good to say I’m now a college student. Steve and I signed up for a bunch of the same classes. I’m most interested in the one on American Art History and he likes the sound of Nude Modelling. I’m kidding, I’m kidding!

Steve’s already an amazing artist. I can’t wait to see what he’ll turn out like after college. Probably some famous cartoonist or an architect or something. His sketches are incredible. He’s sketched me a couple times. I stuck up one of the pictures on my wall.

Oh, and Steve finally gave in to my idea of rooming together while we’re at college! The apartment we found is dingy and gross but it will do the trick. It will be a grand old time, rooming with my best friend. Until one of us tries to bring a girl home, of course. Ha ha.  


**June 14th, 1943**

Tomorrow I ship out for England. I’m gonna be away for a while, so I guess I better write one more time in here. I doubt I’ll take this old journal over with me. It’s got to be almost twenty years old by now.

Tonight I’m taking Steve out to the Stark Expo. We’ve got a couple of cute dates - might pass the time nicely. Last time I’ll see a pretty girl for a while, I’m sure.

I don’t know when I’ll be home. Or what the War will be like. I’ve been in the army since ‘41, training up for this day. Part of me is excited to actually be amongst the action. Punch some Nazis, or whatever. But there’s a whole other part of me that’s scared fucking shitless.

I hate leaving Dad and Becca and Steve. Dad’s proud of me. “Turning out just like your old man!” he says, and I think that’s a compliment from his end. Becca’s got a boyfriend and she’s going to college, so at least she won’t be lonely. But Steve’s got no one but me. At least, no one who cares about him as much as me. I’m going to miss him. Hey, maybe I’ll even see him over there? He’s tried to sign up so many times, they’ve gotta let him in at least once.

Anyway. That’s me. I guess I’ll write in this again when I get home.

I do look forward to it.

 

* * *

 

_who are you,little i_

 

_(five or six years old)_

_peering from some high_

 

_window;at the gold_

 

_of november sunset_

 

_(and feeling:that if day_

_has to become night_

 

_this is a beautiful way)_

 

\- who are you,little i - e.e. cummings -

 

* * *

 


End file.
